As we crested the last rise before the house, my pulse ratcheted up. The porch light was on. But the front door—it hung wide open, the darkness behind it too deep, too deliberate.
I snapped to attention. The moment the truck stopped, I said, “Jojo, lock the doors. If you see anything move, duck under the dash and call the sheriff.”
He paled. “Rawley, don’t—”
I was already out of the cab. I popped the glove box and drew the Sig Sauer I kept there, racked it out of muscle memory,checked the mag. Full. I worked my way up the drive low and quiet, senses tuned for movement, for the whiff of an unfamiliar cologne or the glint of a weapon. My feet made no sound on the dewy grass.
The porch creaked as I climbed it. I kept close to the side, using the posts for cover, sightlines mapped in my head. Inside, the house was dark but not empty. A smell—sharp, animal—hit me first. Not blood, exactly, but close.
I cleared the foyer first, then the living room. Furniture undisturbed, nothing overturned or smashed. But something was wrong. The air vibrated with a static hum, the prelude to violence.
I moved up the stairs, started with the master bedroom, gun up and finger indexed along the frame, eyes sweeping every inch as I entered. Nothing moved, nothing creaked.
The closet was empty except for Jojo’s old sweaters and the battered duffel I’d never unpacked. I pressed my palm to the drywall, feeling for vibrations, for the telltale hum of someone holding their breath behind a false panel.
All clear.
Next, the guest rooms. The window over the bed was cracked open, but the screen was still in place, undisturbed. I clicked my tongue, catalogued the anomaly. Maybe nothing. Maybe not.
Bathroom, linen closet, attic hatch: clear, clear, clear.
I cycled through the rest of the ground floor, ending at the kitchen, where the little tableau still waited—white table, blue bowl, and the mutilated chicks, their bodies arranged in a perfect, sickening spiral.
There were maybe ten of them, their blood pooled and drying in neat crescents. Whoever had done this wasn’t just sending a warning. They were making art.
For a second, my mind flicked to the old cartel killings we’d studied in training—how violence could be language, how amessage could be sent with nothing but animal carcasses and the right choreography.
This one was primitive, but effective.
My hands shook, not with fear but with the kind of rage that, unchecked, would lead to some real bad decisions. I forced my breathing to slow, pressed the muzzle of the Sig to my thigh until it left a faint, round bruise.
The pain helped me focus.
I finished the sweep: mudroom, basement, laundry. All untouched. I looped back through the living room, then ducked out the back to check the porch and the shed. A single, muddy boot print led away from the house toward the east fence line—deep, size twelve, not Jojo’s, not mine. Fresh, maybe hours old.
I locked eyes with Jojo through the living room window. He’d ignored my order to stay put, and stood framed by the glass, hands clenched at his sides, jaw set. His gaze met mine, wide and bottomless.
I gestured for him to come inside, but to keep his head down. He obeyed, ducking his shoulders as he moved through the door. I intercepted him before he could round the corner to the kitchen, slid a hand to his chest and gently steered him toward the bedroom.
“I want to see—” he started, voice thin.
“No, you don’t,” I said. “Go. Lock yourself in until I tell you.”
He hesitated, and I could see the war inside him—shame, worry, the urge to be useful. I softened my grip, stroked his hair behind his ear, and lowered my voice. “Please, Jojo. For me.”
That did it. He nodded and retreated, soft steps vanishing into the hallway.
I braced myself, called the sheriff with the landline. When he picked up, his voice was raspy, half-asleep.
“Calloway.”
“It’s Steele. You need to get out here,” I said, laying out the facts: break-in, no forced entry, animal slaughter, possible threat to life.
There was a pause, then a click as he got serious. “Anyone hurt?”
“No, but I want prints off my kitchen table, and I want to know if anyone’s been through the feed store this week asking about my property.”
Another pause, longer. “All right. Sit tight. I’ll be there in thirty.”
